Too Late
by Gwendolyn James
Summary: I can't wait any longer. If I wait, I won't go. I have to go. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: Not mine. Unfortunately.

A/N: It's been over three months since I've written anything and I apologize to anyone who might have been waiting for something from me (if that's even the case). I just haven't had any good plot bunnies until now, and I honestly haven't been in the writing mood. But finally the bunnies attacked and here is the result.

* * *

I'm leaving him.

As I stand here in the kitchen, watching the rain beat down on the windowpane, I know that it's time. I can't wait any longer. If I wait, I won't go. I _have_ to go.

My bags are packed and waiting by the door, calling to me, begging me to pick them up and walk out of the house. Walk out before I forget the reason why I'm doing it in the first place.

Reason? Try _reasons_. It's never just one thing with him. With us.

I'm not so selfish as to think that this is completely his fault. I know that there are things I've done wrong in this relationship, but after seven years of marriage, you'd think we'd have gotten _something_ right. We're a mess. _I'm_ a mess.

I knew when I married him that we would argue, but I knew that we would always make up in the end.

Somewhere, somehow, we stopped making up.

I don't know how it happened. There isn't a specific moment in my mind where I can say, "Yes, that's where our marriage ended. That's where it went wrong." It happened gradually, sneaking up on me, waiting until the opportune moment to smother me in desperation. I've lived underneath that desperation for far too long.

The rain continues to fall as the clock ticks away the minutes. I need to go now. I can't stay any longer. I grip the handle of my bag, feeling its weight pull against me. It seems heavier than it did before, but it doesn't matter. I have to go.

My feet seem frozen to the floor. The pounding rain echoes my pounding heart. _Just go. Get away from this place. Get away from him._

Can I do it? Can I walk away from him? From everything we once shared?

_But you don't share it anymore. You don't love him._

Don't I? Did I ever really _stop_ loving him? No, love isn't the problem. Love is the only thing that's kept me here this long. Too long.

I'm going. This time I'm really going.

* * *

My heart has stopped. I swear it's stopped right here in the middle of my chest.

Maybe I should have seen this coming, but I honestly didn't. I had no idea.

The letter in my hand mocks me, joining in the contemptuous chorus of thoughts in my head. _You fool. You great, bloody prat. You let the best thing in your life walk away from you and you didn't even know it was happening. Idiot. You deserve this._

I can't breathe. Why? Why did she go? How did this happen? I thought we were happy. I thought everything was fine. Sure, we fight often enough, but we make up, don't we?

Don't we?

I can't remember the last time we made up, but I do remember the last time we fought. Just a few days ago, actually. She was saying something about us needing to talk… I told her that I was going out for a drink with the team…

Oh. Oh, no. No, no, no.

How could I be so stupid? She wasn't yelling at me for going out again, she was yelling at me for _leaving_ her. For ignoring her again.

I am a prize git.

I've got to find her, I've got to explain… explain what? _I'm sorry I've ignored you for so long. Please come back?_ Oh sure, that'll work. We're already far beyond any pathetic apologies I can think up.

I can't lose her. I can't. I need her.

* * *

Home seems so far away.

Home. I don't even know where home is anymore. Is it here with my mother's arms surrounding me, my father's heavy footsteps pounding against the floor as he paces the room? Or is it back there, back with the boy I grew up with, the man who loved me for years?

I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.

Memories assail me, the good and the bad. Our first fight. Our first kiss. Our first date. The time he sat by my sickbed and fed me chicken broth every day for a week. The times we shouted ourselves hoarse trying to prove each other wrong. The day we found out we couldn't have children.

The times he held me while I cried.

But he's not here now. He's not the one holding me, and it's my own fault.

"We'll figure this out," says my father.

"You just let yourself cry," says my mother.

_It's too late,_ says my heart.

He won't come after me, I know. He's not the sort. Yes, he'd protect me from pain, he'd save me from danger, but I know my letter, my _leaving_, has wounded him beyond repair. He won't come for me, and I can't go back.

I'm alone.

What have I done?

* * *

I have a dozen different speeches planned out in my head and none of them seem right.

I can't think of anything beyond her face.

The way she looked after I kissed her for the first time. The blaze in her eyes when we fight. Her glowing smile on the day she married me. The tears that soak into my shirt when she cries.

As I stand here outside her door, letting the heavy rain wash over me, I realize that it's probably too late. She probably won't even open the door when I knock. She probably won't even want to hear what I have to say.

Too late doesn't matter. I have to see her. I have to talk to her. I have to make her understand.

* * *

My heart nearly jumps out of my chest at the knock on the front door.

"Don't answer it," says my angry father.

"It'll be all right," says my understanding mother.

_It's too late,_ says my bleeding heart.

Too late.

The pounding on the door continues. _Too late. Too late. Too late._

A sob tears at my throat. I can picture him on the other side of that door, beating at it with his fist, face red with determination.

He's shouting my name.

_Too late._

Too late doesn't matter.

* * *

The door swings open and the continuing force of my fist nearly knocks me over.

She's there. She's there and she's crying and I'm crying and I don't know what to say. My carefully and stupidly planned speeches have flown right out of my head.

"Hermione."

She doesn't seem to notice the naked panic in my voice, the pure, unadulterated desperation that laces the only word I can manage to speak. Instead, she throws her arms around my neck and sobs against my shoulder.

I cherish the feel of her in my arms, hoping against hope that this won't be the last time I hold her.

"I'm sorry, Hermione." Surely she can hear the shaking in my voice. "Please. I'm so sorry."

Her warm tears mix with the chilling rain and succeed in soaking my shirt even further.

"I promise I'll try harder this time." I'm crying. I can't stop crying. "Please, Hermione. I need you. I need you so much." Another sob. Mine or hers? "Please come home to me."

Her small fingers clutch at my shirt as she raises tearful eyes. "I can't… Ron, I can't." More tears.

Merlin's beard, I don't think I'm going to survive this. My words are choked. "Why not?" Please tell me why.

"I…" She's not looking at me. Please just look at me. "I need… I need time. I need to figure out _why_ I'd be coming back. I need to know that I'm coming home to you because I can't live another day without you."

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against hers, unable – unwilling – to hold back my tears any longer. "Just promise me one thing?"

I feel her nod against me.

"Promise me you won't forget that even though I'm a complete prat and I've made such a mess of thing, I love you more than anything else."

"I promise," she whispers.

* * *

Three months is an interminably long time.

I've made myself stay away, made myself take a step back and truly examine my life, our life. I've listened to advice from every direction, cried myself to sleep more than once, and finally come to see that what I need the most was right in front of me the whole time.

Too late doesn't matter. Too late is merely an excuse, a stumbling block that deserves to be kicked aside. I've kicked it aside, and here I stand outside his door – _our_ door – waiting for courage to visit itself upon me once more.

The door opens before I can even raise my hand to knock.

He's there. He's there and he's crying and I'm crying and I don't know what to say.

We don't need words this time.

I'm not leaving.

I'm home.

FIN

* * *

A/N: I'm home sick. Have pity on me and review or I'll cry. Really I will. 


End file.
